


A Sketch of You (A Portrait of Me)

by artimess_chimes, puddles3535, ToxicButterfly



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Artist!John, Complete, Fuff-out-the-butt, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-03-15 15:05:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3451568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artimess_chimes/pseuds/artimess_chimes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/puddles3535/pseuds/puddles3535, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToxicButterfly/pseuds/ToxicButterfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John sits in class, doesn't pay attention, and draws Sherlock from a distance.  Sherlock is oblivious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It begins

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Johnlock fanfic to ever see the light of day. The rest of my fics are hidden deep in the bowels of my bedroom on coffee stained and ink smudged paper, slowly crinkling into un-readable balls of paper fiber. So I hope you enjoy this, random internet browser. Now go, and begin your journey!

Sherlock Holmes was, in John's opinion, simply too lovely for words. It was not so much the unique structure of his face or the gangling eloquence of his limbs as it was the arrogant tilt to his head and the calculating disdain of his curled lip. Sherlock Holmes wasn't pretty, or at least John didn't think so. He simply was not soft enough. His face was more striking, the kind of face that one remembers, the sort of look that makes a person take up space and demand attention. A body brought to life from chipped marble, eyes carved from the quicksilver flash of a crystal lightning bolt, hair as wild as raised hell and dark as the inky shadows of the midnight chime. John loved him from the moment he walked in the door of John's Human Anatomy and Physiology class.  
John felt that when people are as heartrendingly gorgeous as was Sherlock Holmes, their praises ought to be sung. However, John was never much of a poet. But John could draw, and Sherlock was a muse like no other.  
The problem that John encountered was that Sherlock was beautiful because of the way he seemed to fracture reality around him into shards of glass. It wasn't the body that simple genetics had given him that made him so enchanting...it was the way he operated within it. He didn't walk-he strutted. He didn't talk-he announced. It's not a question, but a demand. When he sat, he lounged. His smile was no more than a brief lifting of his eyes and the most frugal of grins.  
Capturing that personality with graphite took practice. At first it was just quick sketches that would invade the margins of John's notes, his meticulous bullet points being overtaken by twirled curls and the pinched pout of displeasure, morphing into entire days of study lost, with only a hand full of passable sketches that held Sherlock's essence within their lines.  
But worse was it when the class was assigned its first working lab because then John got to see the bright fire lit within Sherlock's eyes as he worked with a feverish intensity, his sleeves rolled to reveal lovely forearms with two small moles near the wrist, his hair pushed back with plastic safety goggles.  
John took note of it all, filling a small hand held sketch book with image after image of Sherlock. Knowing Sherlock was nothing without his words, John had even scribbled in some of his most favorite phrases he had ever heard formed by Sherlock's perfect quip of a mouth. John's only regret was that he was unable to capture Sherlock's voice in his drawings.  
Sherlock's voice was bronze embellished with gold, the kind of voice that hinted at the velvet covered steel that it would be in later life, and it played keep-away with John's heart.  
John thought himself nothing of particular interest. He was begrudgingly short, with dusty hair of an indeterminate blond-brown. His skin was lightly tanned with a soft fresh pink layered over his cheeks from recent sun exposure and his own well-humored disposition. John was in shape, but not obviously so. He enjoyed bundling himself in clothes that even middle aged men dare not touch. John disliked his big ears that turned pink when he was embarrassed, and he disliked his round button of a nose that he thought rather made him look like a hedgehog. The only thing John loved about his face was his eyes, which were a deep deep blue when the sun hit them just right.  
Pretty soon, John began to take note of not just Sherlock (who by now had made a name for himself for being the biggest prick on campus) but of the people he surrounded himself with. There was a sweet girl john had rarely ever seen talk to anyone without stuttering (Molly was her name, John thought) who followed Sherlock around like he was a god. Sherlock and her seemed to get on well but seeing her stare at Sherlock always made John uncomfortable. It made him anxious, but the reason why was something he didn't know. John drew her into the book anyway, with a small smile that lifted her cheeks and her hair pulled to the side, an overlarge scarf wrapped around her neck.  
The only other person John had ever seen approach Sherlock with benevolent intentions was Gregory Lestrade, who was an older student that John knew a little of from being on the rugby team. Lestrade was a handsome young man, who despite being in his mid-twenties already had flecks of steely grey dotting his brown hair. His attractiveness was conventional, but he smiled like a man who knew that he had a great smile that only enhanced his features. John had shared a few conversations with him, and each time had found him to be not only a stand up kind of bloke, if a bit weary at times, but always with a hint of mischievousness underneath it all.  
Drawing Lestrade was easy, but John found that he couldn't keep Lestrade in the normal clothes he wore to school. He was simply to kingly. So, John drew him in square shouldered blazers with cross hatched shadows, trying to find a balance in the dramatic embellishments he wished to impose on Lestrade's physical reality.  
John was careful to guard his notebook. He didn't know if his drawings were creepy or flattering, but if anything that he heard about Sherlock Holmes was true, he knew Sherlock would scoff at him and tear him apart with words. John was positive that Sherlock would never like him back, not even in a friendly way, so he could only draw him from a distance. His fingers itched to get up close and personal, to see and document every angle, every blemish, and every sideways glance of contempt.  
John had a mate named Mike Stamford. Mike was an unassuming fellow, intelligent in words but a little dull in people skills. Mike was reliable, and John liked that. What John didn't like is that Mike was constantly peeping over John's shoulder, apparently curious as to what John was doing. Though it annoyed John, he couldn't really hold it against Mike. Mike had a ten year plan, had been with his girlfriend ever since elementary school, and knew what he would do every year of his life from now to his deathbed. John, on the other hand, was a boat adrift. He had no direction, but plenty of talent. After his father had died three years ago, John's lack of enthusiasm only seemed to grow. The only reason why he went to university in the first place was because he got a full scholarship, and his mum wouldn't let him do otherwise. The only thing John has really been passionate about is drawing, and even he knew that you couldn't make a financially stable career out of that.  
So it just so happened that John was sitting at the lunch table on a particularly quiet day, concentrating very hard, absorbed in layering different shades of grey for the iris of Sherlock's eye, when Mike walked up behind him.

"Is that Sherlock Holmes?" John startled. He turned, flipping his drawing upside down and leaning over it. 

"Mike! Hey! You...ah…surprised me there. What's up?" John laughed nervously.

Mike raised a knowing eyebrow and took a seat next to John. "I'm good, mate. Am I not supposed to mention that you were just obsessively drawing a stunning portrait of everybody's favorite know-it-all?"

John could feel his ears turning pink. "If you could?"

Mike looked thoughtful. "Can I at least see it?"

John handed it over with a doomed look on his face. Then he watched Mike turn the page. Mike pursed his lips and flipped the page again. Then his eyebrows shot up nearly to his hairline, "These drawings are marvelous, John...but except for one or two, they are all of Sherlock."

John covered his face, his ears deepening to a violent red. "I know." John said miserably.

Mike nodded and gave it back to John, a calculating smile on his face.  
John was much more careful about where and who he drew around after that. He stopped drawing in the lunch room and in his study halls, and confined himself to drawing in the library and in his bedroom.  
John didn't live on campus. He still lived with his mom and slightly younger sister, Harry. He didn't have the money for a cab, and he lived so close that it was unnecessary to take the tube, so John usually walked. He didn't mind the walk, and usually enjoyed the fresh air and the exercise. The forecast for today called for rain, so John had worn a plastic poncho that was a plaid green, and big knee high yellow rain boots. John tucked his khaki pants into the boots, bundled his red jumper into the poncho and hunched his head. The rain was hard and pelting, so John decided to wait underneath an overhang on a slightly damp wooden bench. He stared out at the green grey haze of the falling rain and inhaled, letting out his breath in a sigh. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, listening to the hard rat-a-tat-tat of the rain. The mist rising off the pavement kissed his skin, and his hair felt heavy, so he ran his hair through it, coming away with a wet hand, and his hair spiking every which way. John was tempted to open his mouth and taste the air. He was about to, when he was slammed from the side by a dark blur. John's air huffed out from his cheeks, and the hard concrete came up to meet his side in a harsh embrace. A heavy panting pressure lay atop him, and when John shifted to look, the breath he had caught slipped through his lips again.  
It was Sherlock. His hair soaking, inky strands dripping pearly dewdrops, his eyes mimicking the cacophony of colors present in the sky. His cheeks were reddened from the run, his lips pink, and breath swirling between them into smoky streamers of air. His focus was on John, and it felt like a fire on his skin, burning him so sweetly and softly, burning him alive, and John was revealing in it.

"John!" Sherlock's voice rumbled out of the depths of his throat. "Will you help me?"


	2. In the rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try to update at least once every week soooo ...enjoy chapter two ^w^

John's mind scrambled. He breathed a 'yes' and then Sherlock was smiling at him, brilliant teeth against perfect lips, that smart tongue telling him to take off his poncho.  
John couldn't stand, so Sherlock impatiently held out a hand, and John took it, rejoicing at the slight touch, the feel of Sherlock's scars and calluses against his palm. As soon as he was standing, it seemed like time caught up with his hazed mind, and John began shrugging out of his poncho. Sherlock squirmed underneath the bench curling up into an impossibly small ball.

"Now, throw it on top of me, then sit down," Sherlock demanded. John complied, shivering from more than the cold. After a minute or two of John sitting, anxiously listening to the sounds of chaos, about five boys rounded the corner. Random patches of their skin was dyed blue, one had his eyebrows missing, and nearly all of them seemed to be having a very adverse reaction to the dye, with red welts rising around the edges of the patches. They walk over to John, huffing angrily.

"Hey! Have you seen a tall gangly asshole run past here?" The one with no eyebrows asked, his face contorted in anger. John had to swallow his laugh to answer.

"Nope, sorry, mate." John shook his head. “If one does I'll shout or something, alright? Maybe call the police, tell them that they need a bio-hazard unit because a large anus is running rampant or something, right?" John smiled at them.  
A snort came from under his bench and with the smile still in place, John swung his heel back into the source of the noise. The boys seemed to waver slightly, confused, before one of them heard some imaginary noise in the distance.

"Ta, mate." Then they ran off.

John waited a few minutes, then swung his head upside down over the side of the bench. He lifted the poncho, and saw Sherlock peeking up at him, his blue eyes looking impossibly cute, his damp curls falling in a fringe, a smirk on his lips. John's heart squeezed. He had no idea that someone who was so arrogant could possibly look so adorable.

"Fantastic job, John" Sherlock said, and John's pulse picked up. Sherlock wiggled out from underneath the bench, butt first. John told himself to not gape at Sherlock's wiggling butt, but he really couldn't help it. It was such a lovely bum, and it was right next to him. "Except for the kicking part."

John smiled, picking up his poncho and putting it on. Then something dawned on him.

"Hey...how do you know my name?" John asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You are in my Human Anatomy class, John."

"That doesn't means you notice me." John says, highly self-aware.

Sherlock puffed up his chest. "I notice everything." He says in a combative tone.

John raises an eyebrow. "Oh. Everything?"

“Everything." Sherlock affirms with a shake of his curls. John's lips curl into a smile.

"So, it's true what everyone says then? That you can tell everything about a person with just a glance?" John's heart was pounding in his chest. He didn't want Sherlock to know how badly he wanted that sharp gaze piercing him, digging out his truth. He was also terrified as to what secrets he could be giving away. He tried to put on a neutral mask as Sherlock's eyes dragged slowly up his body.

"Yes." Sherlock's yes seemed potent, like the beginning of something, and John's adrenaline sat heavily in his veins

"Do me." John says, his breathe coming quickly.

Sherlock blinked. "Are you...sure?"

John could only nod, breathing heavily through his nose.  
Sherlock opened his mouth, the words brewing on the tip of his tongue.

"Hey!" The shout came from behind John. Sherlock's eyes shifted and he grabbed John's hand. "There he is! Get them!"

"Run!" Sherlock tugged on John's hand and then they were running, running through the rain, feet splashing, and shattering reflections over their shoes. Sherlock was a blur through the downpour and the cold, and John was smiling so hard his cheeks hurt, the humid air burning his lungs. Sherlock led him up and around, leading him through a labyrinth of streets and shadows. John's whole being felt alive, and when Sherlock turned into a small alcove, pulling John in beside him, John met Sherlock's eyes and Sherlock's irises were dancing, blue green oxygen flames. Breath came heavy and harsh, naked chests straining against cloying fabric, and John's laughter came, unbidden, high pitched and raspy. His giggles sounded down right girly and when Sherlock joined in with his chuckle, deep and creamy as chocolate mocha, John's knees went weak. A crack of lighting overhead made John's hair stand on end.

Sherlock looked up. "It's getting late. You should probably be getting home." The words left his mouth in curls of breathy condensation.

It was true. The sky had darkened into a royal blue, leaking darkness down, dripping it around the alcove. The streetlamps had turned on, their orange-golden halos made hazy by the rain, midnight smearing its fingertips around the circles of light. John sighed. He was reluctant to go, to leave the bubble that surrounded Sherlock. John felt seen, in this moment, in the rain. He felt alive. "Yeah, your right. I'll be getting home then." John nodded at Sherlock as he lifted a hand and walked-slowly, oh so painstakingly slowly-away, wishing for that deep voice to shout his name, for those beautiful pale fingers to wrap around his wrist and drag him away again. John had to dig his nails into the palm of his hands to keep from turning around.

When John got home, he set his bag down on the counter and said hello to Harry, who was curled up on the sofa in a tank top and pink zebra printed pajama pants.

"Where were you?" Harry scowls at him. Harry was a beautiful fifteen year old, with blond hair down to her hips, big brown eyes that glowed with whatever mood she was in, long legs and the curves of a woman ten years older than her. She was smart and wild, had a tendency to be blunt and get in your face, but was over all a sweet girl. She had a hard time fighting off the advances of other guys in her class, which wouldn't bother her so much if she wasn't a loud and proud lesbian.

"I was just having a walk." John told her. She set down the cereal she had been eating.

"Walking in the rain?" she raised a brow.

John shrugged. "Well, I am soaking wet, aren't I?"

"Point." Harry allowed and went back to watching whatever crap telly program she had had on. John went to his room and tumbled onto the bed. He put a hand over his face and sighed.

"Stupid" he said out loud. "He won't even remember you tomorrow."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you detect any flaws in the actual writing, please please tell me. I hope you are enjoying this! I know I am loving writing it ^_^ No britpick, so if you would be up to doing that, tell me :)


	3. In Between the Bookstacks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, CHAPTER THREE COMES TO LIFE  
> sorry for the delay in posting, but real life writing got in the way.  
> NOTE TO SELF: do not procrastinate on research papers EVER
> 
> note from beta: the squiggles (~) are separating the story from the letter... Try not to judge me for my squiggles.  
> Puddles Out~

John was awoken late in the night with a shiver. He was still in his damp clothes and his bed sheets seemed to have absorbed most of the wetness from his hair and skin. Sitting up, John debated on a shower, but upon standing, decided that he would get a nice hot cup of tea to ease the weariness in his bones. When he walked downstairs, he found his sister asleep on the sofa. She looked like an angel with the blue TV light acting as her halo. John smiled softly as he put the tea leafs in the pot, setting it on the gas stove to boil. While John was waiting, he retrieved the sketchbook from his satchel, along with a pencil. He leaned against the counter and began to loosely draw a silhouette of Sherlock in the rain. Water is always challenging, and before John knew it, he was being woken from the reverie of pencil lead scratching against paper by the whistle of the tea pot. Harry groaned loudly in the other room, and John pulled the pot off as quickly as he could. Pouring himself a cup, he sat down at the kitchen table and stared at the picture he had drawn. Unlike most of the other drawings in his notebook, this sketch took up a complete sheet of paper. It was a close up of Sherlock, his head tipped down, water cascading off the bridge of his nose and scattering in pearlescent dewdrops from his curls. His eyes where directed toward the ground and he looked thoughtful, somber, almost bashful. John laughed at to see the soft expression on the typically harsh face. 

"What are you laughing about?" John's mum came in the door with a weary smile. John startled, almost dropping his sketch book. 

"Oh, hello mum. Working the midnight shift again?" His mum nodded, set her purse down, and plopped into the chair across from John. Without a word John stood and grabbed another mug from the cupboard. Mrs. Watson was a woman of middling height, with dirty blonde hair, laugh lines, and a smile like home. She had eyes the color of warm nutmeg and generally gave out hugs that had the same effect as warm tea. John and his mum had an interdependent relationship, and trust was a non-issue. Currently John could hear his mum pick up his book and rustle through it. He poured a generous amount of cream into the light golden green of the tea and turned around. His mum was sitting cross-legged in her hospital scrubs, biting her lip and a small worry line sat in between her eyebrows. John sat her tea by her and returned to his seat. He watched apprehensively. Eventually she sat the book down and picked up the mug. She sipped, the steam obscuring her twinkling eyes as she raised an eyebrow at John. 

"Mum-" John started, a blush creeping across his face. 

"-Your father," His mum interrupted, “used to paint. When we met he used to paint me little things on napkins and such. Did I ever tell you how we met? No? Well, at the time I was working as a nurse, healing up soldiers. Your father had gotten himself shot, and I was tending at his bedsit. I thought him charming, but I also thought he would never notice a plain girl like me." 

She paused for a second, then John took hold of her hand. "Don't say that, mum. You're beautiful." She smiled at him. "Oh, shush. Anyway, one day I went in to check on him and he was asleep. On the pull out meal desk attached to the bed lay a small rectangular piece of canvas. On it he had painted a portrait of me. That was when I knew he loved me." 

She swallowed and tapped a finger on John's sketchbook. “This boy here...he seems like he needs a friend. Why don't you start there?" With that she took her tea, kissed John's head, and left John to his thoughts. The next day, John was sitting in the back of class, dozing in and out of sleep, thinking about the irrational hurt he had felt when Sherlock hadn't acknowledged him that morning in class, when a small rectangle square had plopped onto his desk. Across the front in beautiful-if jagged-script was written his name. He stared down at it a moment before looking around to see who could have possibly written him a note. Molly Hooper was timidly waving back at him. He frowned in consideration before he reached down and opened it.

 

~John,  
Apologies for the ridiculous venue of communication, but I didn't have your mobile number and there is an absurd amount of Watson's in the phone book. As it is, I am a man of my word, and I told you I would deduce you. If you regret it, well, words don't refund. I'll begin-you're between eighteen and twenty years old, but no older. You are a rule follower, through it is not because you care for rules, or even because you think rules are all that important, you simply do what others expect of you. You play a rough contact sport, probably rugby. You have some artistic talent, and devote yourself to it. You carry a lot of responsibility but enjoy living in the moment. You hate dwelling in the past, though the events that affected you cause you to carry around defensiveness like a second skin. A bit hypocritical, that. My guess is that someone close to you was taken from you, and you believe that it was a premature death. You have a few people in your life that you feel responsible for, which is why you came to university in the first place. You recently got over a bout of depression, only coming out of the gloomy melodramatic fog of your own pedestrian mind this year, most likely because of the change of setting and people. You are naturally inclined to accept whatever circumstances you find yourself in, and to act upon them. You're also a bit of an adrenaline junkie. You have tenancies to prefer male attention, but are unlikely to admit it. You are flattered by female attention and even find woman pretty enough to date, but that's about it. Your uncomfortable being in the spotlight, but enjoy private praise. You hate people who prosecute others for minor differences. You are a good student but have no joy for what you are studying. You live not far from campus, and don't have enough money for a taxi, which leads me to conclude that you don't have a job. So, you must be a scholarship student with you have at least some intelligence. If you now feel an overwhelming urge to hit me, please, rethink that decision and instead go to the library and learn something that is actually relevant.  
SH~

John felt as if he had been hit over the head with a blunt instrument. There was a thrumming in his throat, and tension in his shoulders. He reread the note, licking his lips, trying to understand what emotion exactly was drowning him. It was a toxic and intoxicating mixture of admiration, unsettled rage, and laughter. After a moment, the rage faded and John smiled. The word Brilliant whispered past his lips and he folded the paper and tucked it into his sketchbook, right next to the beautiful silhouette he had done last night. By the end of the day, John had taken out the note and studied it a thousand times. He could now recognize Sherlock's scrawl adorning all manner of furniture and text booklets, correcting what they printed wrong, or simply dropping random bits of information. John was quite pleased with himself. Sherlock Holmes not only knew who he was, he really knew who he really was. There may not be much of a difference, but the small recognition of who John was inside-not the nice, docile simple man he showed to everyone but the mirror-but the true John, the John who bit first and asked questions later. It was a part of John that he pushed down, the part of him that loved standing too close to the edge, which loved the sing of adrenaline that craved raw honesty and the unspoken things of life that can only be settled with the action of his body. Floating in the enamor of his good humor, John found himself checking into the library. He perused the book aisles, picked out two Agatha Christie books he had yet to read. Spotting a particularly interesting looking book on the top shelf, John jumped, feeling put-out that even library shelves conspire against the vertically challenged. As John jumped, wiggled, and puffed in attempt to reach his book, a long thin arm reached out and plucked it from the shelf. 

"Hey!" John turned and found that he had a face full of t-shirt. He backed up to find Sherlock looking down at him. He had an oddly serious expression on his face, his irises taking on a hue of gray-green that made John think of swirling mist on a forest floor."Oh. Hello." "John." Sherlock's voice was as serious as his face, and when he was standing as close to John as he was, and towering over him so completely, the single syllable seemed painfully intimate. John's pulse quickened, his breathe came shallow and laced with the musky warm vanilla-lavender scent of the man in front of him and the calm knowledge smell of old books. 

"Hello." John said again, and tried to keep the butterfly kisses he felt in his stomach from escaping in the way he sighed. Sherlock took a step back and handed John his book. John took it. The cover art for "The Hobbit" stared back at him."Thanks" Sherlock nodded. They stood in silence for a while, the awkwardness tearing hooks into John's skin, reeling him ever closer to the enigma of Sherlock Holmes. "I did not expect you to take my advice to go to the library." Sherlock said. John shrugged. "Well, you seemed like you knew what you were talking about." John reached into his bag and pulled out a stack of books."Besides, I needed to return some books anyway." Sherlock looked at the handful of books John held. "I could take those for you." 

"Oh, you don't have to do that, but thanks." John could feel the blush creeping over his face and his ears felt hot. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No, that is my job. I work in the library." Sherlock gestured to the slightly rumpled t-shirt. John noticed for the first time that it had a picture of a happily dancing book on it, the same book that was to be found on all the posters that hung in the library. 

"Oh. Okay then." John gave Sherlock a watery smile. Realizing that Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice" was among that stack of books, his blush increased. "Um, thank you." Sherlock was already walking away. He waved his hand. "Don't be grateful. It's my job." John felt oddly full. He walked away, but he didn't get any farther then the sunlight peeking into the doorway of the library before he had turned around and was running back in between the book stacks. By the time he found Sherlock again, he was panting. He put his hands on his knees and held up a finger. Sherlock looked at him with absolute puzzlement. 

"Sherlock" John said, catching his breath. “I just wanted to tell you that you’re bloody brilliant. That note you wrote me about all of that stuff." John gestured to himself. "It was amazing, and you’re amazing, and you were right about it all. “Then John spun on his heel and marched out of the library, a blush so red and fierce on his face that he felt like a traffic light. It wasn't until later that he realized that his sketchbook was missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More notes from beta: Ao3 has been being a butt-face-hole... deal with a mistake or two.  
> Puddles Out... Out~


	4. may be criminal

John spent the first week looking for his sketchbook with panic sitting slick along his spine. During the second week, John was cranky and paranoid. He kept wondering who had found his sketchbook, and more importantly, if they knew it was his. The third week he spent in somber remorse at the loss of some his greatest art work. At the start of the fourth week, John was resigned to his fate, so after school he walked to the nearest frozen yogurt cafe. It was a favorite place of his, and he went there often. The only person who was ever in the cafe was the man who owned it, and he was a man of few words and fond glances. John entered the café to the sound of a bell. He walked over and ordered his usual (strawberry sherbet with rainbow sprinkles), threw some money on the counter, took his order, and slumped in the booth by the window. He scooped up the sprinkles with his spoon and rolled them around on his tongue. He sighed. "What's got you down, John?" The old man behind the counter asked. John shrugged and bit his bottom lip. "Artistic license." John chuckled bitterly, and looked out the window. The man ( John now relized he didn't know his name and cringed inwardly) nodded like he understood something. "Well, this ought to cheer you up." The man shifted behind the counter and John looked up. The man put out a little sign that said 'now hiring' and looked pointedly at John. John smiled. "Promise I'll think about that, mate." John said, and turned back to the window. The café owner went in the back, and John heard the grinding of machines and the splash of dishwater. John turned back to the window to watch the wind as it shook the leaves from the trees. Their patterns of yellow and red, tumbling through the air, made a patchwork quilt that showcased John's favorite season. He sighed again and idly ate some more sherbet. Then a familiar shape caught his eye and he sat up, his sherbet momentarily forgotten. Sherlock stood on the sidewalk, seemingly watching the house in front of him. The wind was whipping his clothes and hair into streamers of color around him. John was up and halfway down the street with a sketch in mind before he relized what he was doing, and by then Sherlock had moved forward and jumped over the fence that surrounded the house. John's pace didn't even falter, he rushed forward, trying to keep Sherlock in his sight. His heart pounded in excitement and as he approached the fence his blood sang with his recklessness. John was not as tall as Sherlock, so he couldn't jump the fence, but eventually he got over, hitting the ground on his feet and a scrape stinging on his inner thigh. He couldn't see Sherlock, but he heard a shout from inside the house. John's heart picked up and he couldn't stop the smile that flashed over his face as he licked his lips and approached the door. John had time to think "I may be in love with a criminal" before he opened the backdoor. Sherlock was facing him across the room. A man who had his back to John was speaking German and was waving a gun wildly. Sherlock was focused on him, trying to speak a language close to German but utterly failing to calm the man. John registered that the man was rather suspiciously dressed, all in black and holding a rucksack. Another man was slowly coming up behind Sherlock. John registered the revolver in that mans hand. He nodded to himself once, scooped up a wooden chair and whacked the man in front of him, scooping up his gun, and pointing it at the man behind Sherlock. " Drop pistolen!" John shouted. Sherlock's eyes locked on him in surprise. The man behind Sherlock charged and John didn't hesitate to shoot. It was a clean shot, through the sternum and out the back. The man dropped dead, and John's heart beat so hard it felt like his heart was about to explode. Somehow, though, John felt steady. Sherlock looked at him, those perfect lips parted. John wanted desperately to kiss him.

Instead, John bent and took the pulse of the unconscious man. John figured he probably had a concussion. He looked up to see Sherlock was still staring at him, those cold eyes assessing. 

"What?" John looked around. 

Sherlock frowned, a small line appearing between his eyebrows. "That was...unexpected." 

John shrugged.

"It was also unneeded" 

John stood with a laugh. " Unneeded? You could have been shot. Also, you're German is terrible." 

Sherlock looked to the side. That was when John noticed the blood soaking into Sherlock's raven curls. 

"You're bleeding!" John crossed to stand by Sherlock, grabbing Sherlock's jaw when he tried to jerk away. John gingerly brushed the hair away, ignoring how silky the strands were, ignoring the smell of Sherlock's shampoo and expensive cologne. The cut wasn't too terrible deep, but it was bleeding enough to cause concern, as head wounds tend to do. John decided that it needed stiches. 

Looking around the room, John pulled out his mobile to phone the cops. Sherlock placed his hand over John's and his gravelly voice was by John's ear. John tried not to shiver at his proximity. 

"New Scotland Yard is already on it's way. My eldest brother will handle all paperwork and statements." 

John decided not to question it. Instead he turned. Sherlock's face was inches away from his, and all John could see was acres of alabaster skin disappearing into expensive fabrics, an intoxicating jumble of body parts begging sensations from John's body. With a deep breathy shiver, John took a step back.

"You need stitches." John said. Sherlock frowned and John held up a hand. "No buts. I can do them, if you would like, but you'll have to come back to my place" John felt a blush creeping over his face and into his ears. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and a smile danced around his lips. 

They left the house and called a cab, which magically appeared out of nowhere when Sherlock raised his hand. Sherlock paid the driver and John gave his address. Leading Sherlock up the creaky steps to his flat, John couldn't help but feel a little embarrassed to have this posher-then-posh young man seeing his not-posh-even-a-little flat. Looking back at Sherlock, who was looking around with a stark childlike curiosity, John felt affection for Sherlock bubble up in his chest. 

Once inside, John had Sherlock sit on the kitchen counter. He got out a small flashlight, checked Sherlock's pupil response, and cleaned out his wound with rubbing alcohol. He then got out his sewing needle and boiled it in hot water for a bit. Sherlock watched everything silent but curious. 

"Are you going to have to shave off some of my hair?" Sherlock asked. He sounded hopeful.

John looked at his wound again. "I don't think so. Why?" 

Sherlock smiled, a true mouth stretching grin that made John feel like his center of gravity was tilted. "Can you imagine Mycroft's face?" Sherlock laughed, and it sounded like the rumble of a mountain, like the stirring of the sun. John wondered how any one person could be so filled with beauty. 

"You boys having fun?" John whipped around. His mum was standing in the kitchen door, eyeing Sherlock with a small knowing smile. 

"Oh! Hello mum." John cleared his throat. "This is Sherlock. He hurt his head a bit and I was just going to sew him up." John laughed nervously. 

His Mum smiled. "I know, dear." She held out a spool of her medical-grade stich thread, the kind that dissolved as the wound healed. John smiled and took it from her. 

"Thanks, Mum." She winked and walked back into her bedroom. 

John turned back to Sherlock, rescued the sewing needle from the hot water, let it cool, and threaded it. Sherlock climbed off the counter, and sat in a chair. John pulled the chair up against the counter and sat behind Sherlock. It only took a eight neat little stiches to sew up the wound, and Sherlock didn't wince at all.

John went to the sink to wash his hands. He heard a rustle, and turned. Sherlock was gone, but on the counter was a scrap of paper with a series of numbers on it and two words. 

Text me-SH


	5. Just One Text

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gee whiz you guys sorry for the super long hiatus. I was going through a bit of rough real life things, but hey I'm back now! enjoy the new chapter! Sorry that its so short, but I promise the next one will be on its way soon! Thank you for reading!

John stared at his phone. It was a little late at night, but John couldn't sleep. The neon night life of London kept creeping through his cream curtains, casting shadows and orange light along the walls of his room. His blankets felt thick and heated, and his skin felt raw. He had put Sherlock's number into his contacts and now his mobile felt as loaded as the gun had earlier. Nervous energy raced through his body, and his arms shook with it.  
The curser on the blank screen blinked at him. John tried to think of a clever opening. Something funny. Something witty? John rubbed his face and decided to go with something more simple.

Hello. -J.W. 

He breathed out a massive sigh. Oh god. He got up and left his phone on the bed. He paced along the walls of the room. Sherlock was probably sleeping. John studiously ignored the image of a sleep rumbled, hair tussled, pink skinned Sherlock that appeared in his head with half lidded eyes and a sleepy smile. John curled his fists. The thought wouldn't leave him alone. He sighed and gave into desire. He pulled out a clipboard and a piece of printer paper. Gathering up his colored pencils and switching on his light, John settled in with his back against the wall.   
He was just finishing coloring the sweet pink of a cheek when Harry knocked on his door. He looked up, feeling oddly guilty.   
"You look like a bloody manic, scribbling stuff at 2 in the fucking morning."   
Harry came in and flung herself on John's bed. She grabbed a pillow and hugged it, sitting cross legged.   
John ran a finger down the edge of his paper. "Yeah, well. It's nothing, I just cant sleep."   
"Bullshit, John. You've been acting really weird lately." Harry smiled and tilted her head, her blonde hair falling out of her braid. Her eyes sparkled. "So, tell me. Who's the lucky lady?"  
John made an indignant noise in the back of his throat. "What? I-there's-it's nobody!"   
Just then, John heard his phone buzz and just about dived across the room and hurriedly dug it from amongst his bed sheets. He nearly knocked Harry over in his haste. She snorted her amusement at him and left the room. John locked the door behind her and curled up with the comforter tossed over his head. He had one text message from Sherlock. His heart pounded as he clicked to read it. 

It's rather late, John. Besides the murder that you committed today, what is keeping you awake?-SH

John huffed. It's weird. He didn't even think twice about pulling that trigger. The man's death hadn't even crossed his mind.

Nothing at all. Oddly, I hadn't even thought about it. Him. Yeah. How's your head?-J.W. 

I've cut off just a bit of hair around the stiches. You can't tell from the front, but the back looks hacked to death. I would much rather if you had simply shaved it, but the scandalized look on Mycroft's face was quite worth the ache in my shoulder and neck. -SH

XD-J.W.

What ridiculous thing is that, John?-SH

It's a laughing face.-J.W.

It looks nothing like a face, let alone one wrinkled in the complicated contortion of laughter. It looks like a capital x and a capital d and nothing more. -SH

Well. Its supposed to be a laughing face, like an animated one, from a cartoon. I do wish you hadn't cut you hair though. I liked you hair. It was pretty.-J.W.

Really?-SH

Really what? -J.W.

You...think I'm pretty?-SH 

Oh. Well, yes. -J.W. 

Oh.-SH

Thank you.-SH

Although what one perceives as pretty is heavily influenced by what one found comfortable and interesting as a child, and so is not at all an adequate or a concrete descriptive adjective. -SH

What were you doing? Today, earlier, breaking into that house?-J.W.

Technically, John, that was yesterday. I was investigating.-SH

Investigating?-J.W. 

Yes. I am a consulting detective. Or, will be one, once I finish schooling, but I see no reason why I ought to wait, Scotland Yard needs all the assistance it can receive. I have to finish my science courses, and I signed up for a crime and law unit next semester.-SH 

Hey! I signed up for the crime and law unit too! I thought it looked interesting. -J.W. 

Grand. Perhaps then I will be able to have a tolerable partner to study with for once, as apposed to the imbeciles that I generally get paired off with.-SH

So, what you're saying is that you want to be...Partners in Crime?-J.W. 

Eh?-J.W. 

Oh, come on ,Sherlock, that's funny! Don't ignore me because I have a great sense of sue-mor! -J.W.

Get it? Sue-mor sounds like humor but its sue because it's crime and LAW? -J.W. 

Oh, you're no fun. -J.W.

John, you are murdering this joke. Goodnight.-SH

Goodnight, Sherlock. -J.W. 

John fell asleep with a big smile on his face and his mobile held tightly against his heart.


	6. A secret space

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, i did have this completely written and ready to be posted, but wouldn't ya know it, it didn't save so i had to start all over again, to my extreme frustration because this is a pretty long chapter (i think). But, no worries i rallied! i went out, bought some red panties, and pulled them up in all big girl fashion. So her we go with the maybe second to last installment in this particular story. I don't know if i'll do more with this world or not. tell me what you think in the comments? Anyway, i'm done blabbering. Here's the chapter!

Sherlock had indeed completely chopped the back of his hair into an utter mess, and it probably looked insane and terrible, but as far as John was concerned it looked bloody fantastic, and loved seeing the uneven wreck of curls bobbing ahead of him as Sherlock ran off doing who-even-knows-what because it meant that Sherlock was there and bright and ,most importantly, around John. 

Sherlock and John seemed to fade right into each other's life like it was always supposed to be this way. Sherlock had a very special ability to weave in and out of John's days like a cat would between a pair of legs, only unbalancing a week enough to leave John panting and red faced, smiling as he collapsed into his bed at night, almost content with calling Sherlock Holmes his best friend. 

The odd thing is that despite the impact that Sherlock made on John, the world around John just absorbed him into it. John still went to rugby practice. He still had late dinners and worried over his future. Life went on, but somehow now it was different, as if John had been living a monochromatic existence until ink curls and ice eyes stained his universe in mystery and smirks, firing neurons and gun smoke. 

The worse part about being Sherlock's friend was that he always knew where you were, and didn't seem to understand the concept of boundaries. John vividly remembers when he was in the bathroom stall at school, red pants around his ankles and his nose in a book, elbows leaving indents on his thighs, when Sherlock popped his head over the stall door (the tall bastard) and commanded John to hurry up because they had stuff to do. John still remembers the pain he felt when he smashed his book into his dick, trying for modesty, and how Sherlock had rolled his eyes. 

Regardless, John loves the madness that shrouds Sherlock like a cloak. He loves getting jolted awake at 3 in the morning, wondering how Sherlock got into his flat,and running into the night to chase down the evil of the world. He loves how Sherlock pushes him to study harder because really knowing how to doctor just might save a life one day. He loves the man he becomes around Sherlock, he loves how smiling with Sherlock feels like walking the edge of a knife, and how laughing with him feels like drowning in warm tea. He feels his heart skip a beat, knowing that he, and he alone, gets to see Sherlock in ratty t-shirts and silk robes, bare feet straining on the window seal as he taps on the glass. Only John gets to know that Mycroft-was-being-insufferable-no-he-couldn't-use-the-door-like-a-normal-person-John-normal-is-boring.

John really thought he could do it. He really thought he could be this close to Sherlock and not fall apart. John didn't think it would be too difficult, to push down the the awe-struck eyes and the maiden-like sighs, the warm-tummy desire and the daydreaming of plush lips. He thought he could be like Sherlock and just ignore things like emotions when it suited him to do so. He even thought he was succeeding. 

But then they were in a cafe, and Sherlock was babbling on and on, his hands were flying like paper birds, and words like 'bone marrow' and 'blood cells' were falling from his lips, and sunlight was hitting him just so, lighting him up, cheeks aglow with his own self-importance, and John wanted to cry at the majesty. If he thought he was in love before, he did not know how deep the cracks in his heart could go, and he fell hard, blood thumping in waves that filled his ears and pushed him forward, palm to cheek, tongue throwing whispered words into his buttered pancakes. 

"Gorgeous." 

Sherlock froze as if someone had pressed the pause button, mouth open, hands raised. He blinked, rapid-fire, eyelashes making an audible sound against the cream of his skin. His eyebrows turned up in puzzlement, and the corner of his mouth crinkled. His nose twitched and his hands dropped. His head tilted and he stared sat John. He sipped his tea and stood. 

"Mm." He said, and nodded, walking out the door of the cafe.

John had a heart attack and died, right then and there. 

Or so he thought, anyway. What really happened was he stared ahead for a few minutes before pulling out his phone and calling up Mike's girlfriend, Marianne, who came and herded a very blank John back to his flat. 

John finally snapped out of it when Marianne sat down behind him and began pulling his short blond hair into tiny ponytails. 

"Marianne?" He said, and turned to look at her. She was a petite woman who was a fan of plaid skirts and big earrings, cardigans and roomy t-shirts. She had a cloud of platinum blonde curls that floated around her head and a pair of bright red cat-eye glasses that perched on the end of her nose. 

"Yes,John?" Her hazel eyes twinkled. 

John sighed and flopped backward, putting a pillow over his face. 

"Please, suffocate me."

she poked him in the ribs, fingernail digging in. 

John jolted up with a squeal. 

"Oi, i said suffocate not stab!" 

Marianne shrugged. "They both begin with s and I'm dyslexic, what do you want from me, John?" 

John groaned. "That's not how dyslexia works, Marianne!" 

"Oh, isn't it?" She said innocently, going back to playing with John's hair. John grumbled. "So what happened?" 

John scrubbed his face with his hand. " I think Sherlock knows." 

"John, the whole school knows." 

"You don't even know what I'm talking about!" 

Marianne tugged on his hair. "John, the two of you are so in love, you can literally cut the sexual tension with a knife. All the looks and just,ugh, fuck already." 

John sprung off the bed and clutched his chest."Marianne!" 

She looked at him. "There is no reason to react like an 18th century heroine, John." She smirked. "Look, you don't have anything to loose. If you think he already knows, then tell him the expanse of how much you like him. If he doesn't know, well, tell him and then the two of you can go off into the sunset together. Plus, if you guys get together this month I win the bet that I have against the rugby team." She smiled and winked. 

John scowled. "Look, I'm going to bed. You can stay the night, if you'd like." 

Marianne did indeed stay the night. In fact, John fell asleep before she did, and it was because of this that he found himself being dragged down the stairs and thrown out into the cold London night in nothing but his slippers and his pajama bottoms. He pounded on the door.

"Marianne, let me back in!" 

"No!" 

"Marianne!" 

His only answer was the slide of the lock. 

He sighed and rubbed his arms. The freezing fingertips of the night ran across his bare chest and his nipples peaked. The light of the streetlamps offered no comfort. John sighed and pulled out his phone, which somehow manged to not fall out of his waistband. 

Could really use your lock-picking skills right now, seeing as I'm half-naked and locked out of my flat.-J.W. 

I'm busy. -S.H. 

Where are you? -J.W.

It is of none of your concern.-S.H.

Yikes, I'm dying.-J.W. 

Highly doubtful.-S.H. 

Are you calling me a liar?-J.W. 

Sherlock?-J.W.

I'll have you know that I am slowly snapping off into bits and fading away due to prolonged exposure.-J.W.

That's right, no heroic death for me.-J.W.

Death by Popsicle-ization.-J.W. 

Avenge me-J.W.

John was hunched over his phone, and so was entirely startled when a warm heavy Belstaff settled over his shoulders. He looked up in surprise to see Sherlock standing next to him. Sherlock smiled. 

"Sherlock." 

"John." 

"You came." 

"I'm not breaking into your flat. If you aren't intelligent enough to have a spare key hidden out front, then you deserve being locked out." 

"Hey, you don't have to be a git. Besides, where am I supposed to sleep if I can't get in?"

"Follow me." 

Sherlock swirled away into the light-studded night time, and John followed. 

Sherlock led him to a bookstore called "Hudson's". He let them in at the back door and took John back to a room that was hidden behind multiple stacks of inventory. A curtain covered the door and warm peachy light leaked around it's gossamer edges. 

John pushed aside the fabric and entered the room. A blow-up mattress was pushed into the corner, and on it was heaped toy dogs and a bumblebee blanket. A desk was next to the bed and it was cluttered with chemistry equipment. A music stand was laying on its side and folded piles of clothes and scattered letters made a carpet against the hardwood. A lamp with an orange shade and bright pink stand cast the light in the room. 

"You can sleep here." 

John sighed in relief, not questioning the hospitality, just landing face down in a delightfully warms bed that smelled so strongly of the man he loved. He was asleep within minutes. 

When he woke up, he found himself handcuffed to the desk, and Sherlock looming over him with a terrifying expression on his face. 

"Tell, me, John." Sherlock raised a hand, and from it dropped John's sketchbook, the one he had lost all those days, months ago. He looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock looked furious. "How long did you think you could get away with spying on me, and who exactly do you work for?"


	7. Basorexia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basorexia, noun; An overwhelming desire to kiss someone.

"Wait, what?" John shook his head in confusion as Sherlock's words sunk in through the layers of sleep and shock. He stared at the sketchbook that sat so innocently on his chest. "um..wait. Sherlock?" 

A derisive snort from that elegant nose, and a sneer tugged at those rose-petal lips. "Please, John, don't act stupid, it's really rather unbecoming.Who hired you? Was it the Jensens?" 

John tugged at the steel bracelet that encircled his wrist. He tried to shift into a more upright position, but his whole body protested with a twinge of stiffness. 

"At first I had thought that perhaps it was Mycroft, but then I realized that he wouldn't have hired someone so incompetent, especially to keep an eye on me. So I deduced that it must be a lessor organization that had it in their best interests to keep an eye on my activities. I must applaud your acting skills. Most convincingly friendly. I didn't even suspect anything until you accidentally handed over the book of notes you had been keeping on me. Initially, I was unsure what to make of your little book." Sherlock drummed his fingers on the cover, and John could feel each small fingertip beat a spear of ice into his heart. " But then, you rather gave yourself away with the bit where you saved me. It was so obvious that you had been following me, I was furious with myself for not catching it sooner. I quite enjoyed the time we have spent together, but some new personal developments mean that I must put a stop to this little game." 

"No, Sherlock. I, no. I'm not a spy." John breathed heavily and tried to contain the constriction of his throat. 

Sherlock snatched the sketchbook up, and opened it to a random page. "It's Monday. Sherlock seems preoccupied today. I saw him in the library, where he surrounded himself with books about different fungal poisons and proceeded to ignore them, muttering nonsense and starring out the window." With raised eyebrows, Sherlock turned the book around so John could see the picture (John remembered how he had sat there and drawn it, the rain hitting the roof a pleasant white noise to have in the background) of Sherlock, curled between two book shelves, pages open around him, squiggled lines holding the place of words on a page, and the tiniest tip of illustrated Sherlock's tongue poking from the corner of his granite mouth in concentration. 

John swallowed. He could feel the dryness of his throat, of his tongue, feel the heaviness of his teeth as they were weighed down by the words he couldn't say. 

"Oh, look here. " Sherlock pointed to another page, mockery filling his voice. " You even quoted me here. This really is such a pretty picture book, John." 

"Sherlock! For Christ's sake, I'm not a bloody spy!" 

"What other explanation is there, John!? People like you don't just make friends with people like me! Why would you take the time to draw me, over and over again, writing about me, keeping track of me, unless you're a spy? It doesn't make sense otherwise!" Sherlock's words seemed to choke on themselves, coming out strained and full of ache. 

"Dammit all!" John clenched his teeth in frustration and pulled his wrist uselessly against the handcuff. He let his head fall back and he stared up at the ceiling. He felt the dip in the mattress as Sherlock sat on the bed by his legs. They were both breathing heavily, and John licked his lips as his heart pumped adrenaline into his system. 

"Sherlock, I'm not good with this sort of stuff. I find it difficult, very difficult." 

"What, being found out as a -"

"Shut up, Sherlock! Just-just listen." John closed his eyes. It felt easier, to say the words when he was hiding behind his eyelids, so he kept them shut. "Sherlock, I, um, well. I know this is going to sound creepy, but its. Well. The truth. I fancy you. A lot. God, Sherlock, I fancy the pants off of you. I have, for awhile now. A long while. I know you don't go for that sort of thing, but, God, how you could think that I'm a spy, you mad bastard? I'd never, I mean, I'd never do anything to hurt you. I....I bloody love you." 

As the silence dragged on, John felt certain that he could hear his heartstrings tearing. Then he felt the mattresses shift, and Sherlock was gone. 

John squeezed his eyes shut as the overwhelming urge to cry seized him. Just as he was beginning to berate his foolishness, he heard a small metallic click, and the handcuff fell away. He could feel Sherlock's presence once again, so he opened his eyes. 

Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes wide, his cheeks a fierce shade of pink. The fabric of his trousers was balled in his fists, and he was starring resolutely at the floor. His whole body seemed to quiver, even as he held himself still. John sat up, slightly mirroring Sherlock. He watched as Sherlock sucked on his bottom lip. 

"Have you ever...done this before? The drawing?" Sherlock's voice wavered into the air, unsure and wafer-thin. 

John responds with a whisper. "No" 

They sit in the almost quite a bit longer, the gruff sounds of the waking city just beyond the walls rooting this shaky moment of possibility in something concrete. 

"And...you're sure that you..fancy me?" 

The puzzlement that laces through the question picks at John's heart, the awe and self-doubt that the phonetic sounds are strung upon cut into John's soft sides. 

"Yes." John can't seem to speak above a whisper, this whole conversation seemingly encased in an eggshell and held by spun-glass wings. "I do." 

"Then that means you want to...kiss me and..touch me and things?" Dubious fascination and uncertainty strengthen Sherlock's voice. 

John swallows. "Well, I suppose." The image of actually kissing Sherlock flashes in his mind and John's heart stutters. "Yes, I do. But,uh, I know that you don't feel that way about things. It's, It's all fine." 

Sherlock turns away so John can't see his expression, but he can see his pulse strumming underneath the delicate skin of his neck when he asks "You've had girlfriends before?" 

"I've had a few." 

Sherlock swallows and squeezes his eyes shut. When he speaks again, his words are deliberate, calculated. "John, I was very pissed at you for being a spy because you are one of the few people that I have come across who I not only found to be tolerable, but who I actually enjoyed spending time with. I am quite relieved that on this one occasion my deduction skills were lacking." 

John licked his lips and nervous giggles danced in his throat. "Um, I'm glad? I think." 

Sherlock moved abruptly, turning to fold his legs beneath him, facing John on the bed. His eyes were still squeezed shut, his cheeks a sweet symphony of blooming capillaries and shyness. He took a deep breath. "I've never been kissed." 

The words are fragrant ones, tinging the air with sliced peaches and fresh cream, and John could taste them on the air, oxygen molecules mixed with hope and husk. They fill his lungs and stir the spark of fervor until it ignites across his neurons in a brilliant ark of desire. 

"John, I-I want you to be my first kiss." 

John chokes on his next breath and his response comes out strangled. "Really?" 

Sherlock's whole frame shutters. "I've never wanted something so much in my life." 

John turns to face him, mirroring the way he has his legs folded. "Okay." 

His field of vision narrowed down to just Sherlock's lips, slightly pursed in expectancy. His palms were sweaty, so he rubbed them on his pants and leaned in, the warmth from Sherlock's skin heating his own. Just as their lips were about to touch, Sherlock whimpered. "Wait" 

John stayed where he was, paused. Sherlock opened his eyes just a sliver, the silver of his eyes murky and dazed. It took but a moment for him to glimpse John, so close, and "Oh ,god, John" fell from his mouth like a prayer. 

Sherlock took John's mouth against his own. 

John breathed in harshly through his nose. The tender,quivering flesh pressed against his lips was chapped and tasted of skin and warmth. John pressed his lips firmly against Sherlock's, their noses bumping as he tilted his head, John's fingers caught in the soft curls of Sherlock's hair. Powerful relief swelled up within John's chest, a soft whimper stuck in his throat. Sherlock puckered his lips against John's and trailed his hands down John's back, his fingertips leaving a trail of cold fire down John's spine. John sucked on Sherlock's bottom lip. If the way honeyed evening sunlight warming naked skin could be made into a sound, that would be the sound that Sherlock made then. 

When they finally broke apart, John's lips were tingling and his chest was filled with joy in its purest form. Sherlock smiled at him, a full grin that John knew was reflected on his own face. Somehow, Sherlock had ended up curled in John's lap and they sit there a moment, breathing each others air, blood vessels pumping newly ignited desire beneath their skin, faces and necks reddening with it. 

Sherlock's eyes drift up and laughter bursts from him, mirth shaking his body.

"What?" John asks. Sherlock points at John's head. Confused, John reaches up and pats his head. 

His hair is still in those ridiculous ponytails from the night before.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beta Puddles3535! ^~^ Check out her works


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